Landlord
by iluvcm
Summary: Dean Winchester has a new tenant move into his basement. He is tall, muscular, good looking, and his name is Sam. What Dean doesn't know, is that Sam has recently started a new life away from hunting and all things supernatural. He has found a way to completely seal himself off from the world of ghosts, angels and demons, but will it work?
1. Moving In

Dean watched, impressed, as his new tenant heaved the first box into the basement. The guy had some serious muscle. "Need any help?" he asked.

"Urmm, yeah. If you wouldn't mind," he replied.

"No problem. Are the rest in your car?"

"Taxi actually. The guy's waiting outside."

"Okay," Dean said, opening the door and walking out to the taxi on the curb. He greeted the driver with a smile and went to the open trunk. He was surprised that there wasn't much in there. His tenant, Samuel, had already brought in one box, and there was only a big rucksack and two more boxes in the taxi. Dean grabbed a really heavy box and struggled back to the house, walking through the open door. Samuel was coming up the stairs. Dean flashed him a grin as he passed, then he waddled down the stairs, careful not to scratch the newly painted wall. He placed the box on the floor and the contents rattled. His tenant came down the stairs a couple of minutes later with the last box and the large hiking rucksack on his back.

"Thanks Mr Winchester."

"My pleasure. And call me Dean. I'm your landlord not your school principle."

"Okay, thanks Dean."

"I'll leave you to unpack, then I'll walk you through the house to refresh your memory of the place."

"Sure," Sam said, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. He ripped the tape from the first box and opened it. Inside were a couple of shirts, t-shirts and jeans, a second pair of sneakers and some underwear. Wrapped in a couple of shirts were some old books and a photo of a woman and a new born baby. The photo was in an old silver frame which almost, but didn't quite cover the orange date stamp: 05/02/83, his birth date. Sam folded the clothes and put them in the old maple wood chest of drawers in the corner of the room. Then he placed the photo frame on top. The books went on a small shelf on the white wall opposite the double bed. The next box contained more books; modern ones this time, which joined the old ones on the shelf. The rusty blue metal alarm clock went next to the photo frame, and a cloth bag with a towel, razor, aftershave, soap and all in one shampoo-conditioner-shower gel (taken from a motel somewhere) made its home in the tiny adjoining bathroom, in which the sink, shower and toilet were so close together that he could probably use all three at once. Sam dragged the hiking bag to the corner of the room where there was a mini fridge and small oven with a hob on top. He took out a carton of milk, a small kettle and a couple of different ready meals. He had an old saucepan which he placed on the hob, and a half used packet of rice which he put in the little cupboard. The pasta and an almost expired jar of sauce joined the rice, along with some sugar and a jar of instant coffee. At the bottom of the main bag was a red mug with a chipped rim. Sam put it on the side with his knife, spoon and fork. His white china plate, also chipped went there too. The crockery had been wrapped in a winter coat, hat and scarf which Sam hung on the hook on the back of the door. He took some pieces of crinkled paper out of the coat pocket and put it next to the stove. It was a take away pizza menu and a Chinese menu, each with phone numbers for different areas on. Then he reached into the side pocket of the bag and brought out a one-kilo bag of refined table salt. He placed it in cupboard, hoping he wouldn't have to use it.

Once his clothes, books and food were unpacked, Sam opened the last box. He cracked a tired, relieved smile when he saw the contents again. He reached inside with caution and took out his silver pocket knife, wiped the blade on his jeans and placed it next to the photo on the chest of drawers. Then he had second thoughts and put it in the bedside table drawers. He put the flashlight on the bedside table. Then he took out a large tin filled with rock salt bullets and another tin with pure silver bullets. Sam put the sawed off shotgun under the bed, and the black pistol and a small bottle of gasoline in the bedside table along with his knife and the bullets. He hopefully wouldn't be needing the weapons anymore, but he wasn't taking any chances so early on in his new life. Sweaty and tired, Sam took some draft stoppers out of the box. They were long thin canvas cylinders, which Sam had filled with salt, not sand. He had come to the conclusion that having lines of salt by the doors and windows would be hard to explain, so he'd put the salt in draft stopper bags. In was inconspicuous and would also keep the demons out, should any come looking for him. He placed one draft stopper at the door and one at the window. Then he heaved the double mattress off the bed, groaning as he did so, and put more draft-stoppers against the edge of the bed frame. These draft stoppers were hardly filled with salt and were almost flat, so when Sam heaved the mattress back onto the bed, the difference in height was hardly noticeable. Now, with salt at the windows and doors and all around his bed, along with his arsenal, there was no way (hopefully) that a demon could attack him. He knew he was being paranoid, but he had to be safe.

He sat on the bed for a minute, panting, trying to expel all thoughts of the supernatural world from his brain. Then he heard movement upstairs and remembered Dean. He stripped off his sweaty tank top, jeans and underwear and stepped into the shower. The water gurgled in the pipe for a second before gushing out in cold splutters. Sam gasped as it ran down his muscular back. A few seconds later, it warmed up and became a steady flow. He grabbed the shampoo-conditioner-shower gel and washed his damp hair and body. When he was clean he took the old towel and dried himself. Then he shaved in the sink, looking into the steamy mirror. He rubbed his hair with the towel and shook it like a wet dog until it was dry. Then, he placed the towel over the translucent shower door to dry. He dressed in jeans and a plain blue t-shirt. He'd noticed Dean wasn't wearing shoes in the house, and had even gone out to the taxi in socks, so Sam put on a pair of thick black socks and jogged up the stairs to his front door. He kicked the salt-filled draft stopper out of the way to open the door, then he stepped into the main house. The carpet was navy blue and wearing thin. He was in a hallway with the front door to his left and an open door to his right a couple of metres away. Through the open door, Sam could see a sitting room and a kitchen. The walls were white, like the walls of the basement flat, and there was a picture of his landlord Dean with his arm around a man with short black hair and stubble. Sam smiled. The next picture along the wall was of the same two men, and the next.

"Hey Samuel."

Sam jumped a little. Dean was standing in the doorway.

"Hi."

"Shall we start the tour?"

"Sure," Sam smiled. "And um, please call me Sam okay?"

"Sure," Dean replied, his heart warming to his new tenant.


	2. Spell

As they walked around the spacious house, Dean couldn't help but notice the numerous scars on Sam's bare arms. What were they from? Self harming? Abuse? Fighting? Maybe he was a professional fighter, as he had the right physique. They walked around the ground floor, through the living room, small dining room and kitchen.

"Upstairs," Dean motioned towards the closed door at the top of a flight of steep, blue carpeted stairs, "are all my rooms, so basically you're welcome anywhere on this floor. There's a bathroom here," he opened a door to show Sam the interior, "and that's basically it." They walked back into the kitchen, and Sam leant on the cream coloured marble counter, already feeling a lot safer than he had in a while. Dean opened the fridge and took out two beers. He slid one across the counter to his tenant, who flashed him a smile that made Dean's heart flutter.

"Thanks."

"No problem," Dean grinned back. "…So…"

"Nice house," Sam filled in the silence a little too quickly.

"Thanks. I just moved in myself, about three months ago."

"Really?"  
"Yeah. It still needs a bit of work, especially upstairs with the roof and things, but I did the basement up as soon as I could, to get some money in." Dean took a swig of his beer. Sam copied.

"Ah."

"So, what do you do, Sam?"

Sam swallowed another mouthful of beer before he spoke the well rehearsed line. "I'm a lawyer."

"Oh really? I know-" Dean turned a little grey. "Used to know, a lawyer."

Sam saw the flash of pain in Dean's face. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Dean shook his head. "It's fine."  
"So…how about you?"

"Oh, um, I'm a technician and mechanic."  
"Ah, cool."  
Silence fell.

"How d'you get those scars?" Dean asked curiously, cocking his head towards Sam's muscular arms.

Fighting demons and spirits. And his dad. "Oh, I fell badly on something sharp when I was a kid. I was in my dad's workshop messing around. He's a carpenter."  
"Ouch."

Yeah, thought Sam.

Dean's phone rang. They both jumped a little at the piercing sound.  
"Sorry, hang on a sec," Dean said, digging into his pocket. He looked at the name, and Sam saw him take a deep breath. "Sorry, gotta take this."

Sam held up his hands, letting Dean know it was okay.

"See you soon Sam."

Sam nodded and downed the last of his beer. He left the bottle on the marble counter and walked down the hallway to the basement steps.  
"Hello?" Sam heard Dean. "Hi Jenna… Yeah I'm 'k… Yeah… Sorry I didn't come today, I didn't really feel-"

Then Sam jogged down the stairs, went into the basement flat and closed the door, wondering who Jenna was. Dean's voice was muffled and unintelligible now, but Sam didn't want to intrude so he kept the door closed. He lay on his bed with a sigh, and picked up the silver photo frame from the maple chest of drawers. He smiled sadly at his mother, who looked so happy holding him. Slowly, he kissed the glass, replaced the frame, and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Then he dug his phone out of his coat, which was hanging on the back of the door and checked his messages: ten texts from Dad. Sam winced and chucked the phone on the floor, taking pleasure in the thudding sound it made on the thin blue carpeted floor. It wasn't late, he noticed, glancing at his waterproof watch, but he had nothing better to do so he grabbed his phone again and walked over to the kitchenette where he dialled the number.

"Hey Sammy!"

"Urgh… hi? Is this the pizza place?"  
"No silly! It's Kate!"

"Kate?"  
"From the pizza place."

"So this is the pizza place?"  
"No Sammy, this is my mobile."  
"Ohhh!" Sam whispered, the memory of a cute girl working the till at the pizza place in upstate New York writing her number on the menu came flooding back to him. "Hi Kate. Sorry, I got a bit confused."  
"It doesn't matter!" He could hear the smile in her voice. "So, do you want to meet up sometime?"  
"Sorry sweetheart, I'm not in town."  
"So when will you be?"  
Sam laughed a little. "Probably never." Because I already killed the demon who was a block away from your shop. "Sorry."

"Oh." She sounded hurt.

"No, no. It's just, I've moved house. New York wasn't my city."  
"Oh… So why did you call then huh?"  
"Honestly, wrong number. I wanted a pizza, but I'm a bit too far away to come pick it up, and I'm sure your guys on motorcycles wont want to travel this far."  
"Okay then."  
"Sorry Kate."  
"It's okay Sam. Nice talking to you."  
"You too."

She hung up. Sam ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. Then he ripped off the corner of the paper with her number on and threw it in the trashcan under the sink. He picked up his phone again, and this time, managed to actually order a pizza. Then he sat on his bed and took his dad's journal off the shelf. He flipped the thick pages to the back of the leather book and took out a thin, very old sheet of paper which had been ripped out of an antique book. As he'd flicked through the pages of the journal, he'd noticed the handwriting. It was fading slightly, and the changes of pen were frequent. Sam could still vividly remember his dad writing in the journal on the few occasions he was with him as a child in all those motels they'd stayed in. Sam would always doodle with the only pen in the room, and his father would get angry if the pen ran out due to Sam's drawings. They weren't happy memories. Sam's mind drifted to his dad _now_; drunken, delirious and war weary. Hunting had changed him in the past few years. Sam didn't know why. The man had never been a good father. He had never been there for Sam when he needed him, but he'd always loved his boy, and Sam had always been safe in a hunt because John always had his partners' backs. But when Sam had snuck out of the house, carrying only a hiking bag filled with necessities, and travelled to Stanford, things had changed. His father had called him more than twice a day. He chased him until he found him and then he provided 'evidence' he was a 'police officer' and that Sam was an 'escaped convict' and not a law student at all. Stanford couldn't see any faults in John's fake ID and papers, and so Sam was taken to 'jail' and left collage behind forever. Now he was too old to go back. The opportunity had passed, and since the gate to hell had been opened, he'd been a little too preoccupied to think about school.

Then he'd found the spell. It had been in an ancient book of Aztec charms, but the spell was handwritten in the margins of a piece of paper that had been ripped out of another book and tucked inside the Aztec one. Sam didn't know where the loose piece of paper came from, or who had scrawled the spell down the side in splotchy black ink, but he did know that it probably (hopefully) saved his life. It was a shield spell, and if uttered at least once a day, would keep him shielded and completely invisible to all things supernatural. With the piece of paper in his hand, he whispered the spell, hoping Dean wouldn't hear or walk in on him.

_"Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales. Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales. Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales._

_Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales._

_Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales."_

He looked up from the paper, shivering involuntarily as he felt a wave of something he couldn't explain rush through the room. He would be safe for another day. Then he heard the doorbell ring. Going by the muffled speaking he could hear, Dean was still on the phone, so Sam got up from his bed and grabbed his wallet from his coat pocket. Then he opened his door, and the front door to collect his pizza.

"Pepperoni with a cheese filled crust?"  
"Yep thanks."

"That'll be $18."  
Sam handed him the money. "Thanks man." He smiled.

The man, about forty, portly and greying, nodded, and walked back to his bike. Sam walked back downstairs, inhaling the smell of pizza and sighing - half with content, half with exhaustion.


	3. Memories

There was a knock just as Sam was finishing the last of his pizza. He jogged up the stairs an opened the newly painted door to find Dean standing there, leaning against the doorframe.

"Hey."  
"Hi, urgh… sorry about before," Dean said with a small smile, his eyes glancing at the navy blue carpet for a fraction of a second.

"It's fine, you don't need to apologise."

Dean nodded, looked at the floor again, then said. "Well, I'll leave you to get some rest. You must be tired huh?"  
Sam cracked a smile and looked at his watch. "Yeah. But it's only eight thirty, dude. We could grab another beer." Dean didn't react. "On me?" Sam asked.

His landlord looked away again. "Sorry Sam, I'm not really up to it today." Sam saw a flash of moisture in his eyes. He tentatively laid a hand on the man's shoulder.

"It's okay. Another time yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean echoed unconvincingly.

"Well, g'night."  
"Night." Dean let out a breath he forgot he was holding in as Sam closed the basement door. He walked back to the kitchen and took out his flask from the back pocket of his jeans. He unscrewed the cap and took a long gulp of the whiskey, letting the fiery liquid pour down his throat and scald his aching heart. He had a crush on Sam, there was no doubt about that, but what would _he _think? Dean didn't want to move on so quickly. His eyes were wet again as he stared longingly at the picture of them together; Dean and the man with the chocolaty eyes and rugged face: his one true love. Would he mind? He'd always been the protective one.

Dean took another swig from his flask, trying to block out the images that were flooding back to him. He couldn't remember much from the night it had all happened. He remembered lying in bed with him, stroking the man's thick dark hair, when black smoke had come pouring out of the vent in the ceiling. They'd both looked on with horror, and in Dean's case, confusion. It twisted and coiled in ways that smoke shouldn't be able to do. Dean had watched as the man he loved had leapt out of bed and placed his palm on Dean's forehead. Then there had been a bright white light, and Dean couldn't open his eyes. There was some sort of force stopping them. All he could hear were screams of pain. He felt something warm and wet splash his face.

"CAS!" Dean had yelled.

The screaming has stopped. Silence. The force had stopped too. Dean was too terrified to open his eyes. He didn't want to see what had happened. When he did finally look, all he saw was blood spattered everywhere. He couldn't see Cas. The room blurred.

"CAS!" He'd cried out again. "CAS?"

Dean downed the last of his whiskey, and moved towards the cupboard to refill his flask. Jenna, his therapist, was right. He wasn't okay. It'd been four months since Cas had died. No-one could figure out how he'd been murdered. Dean didn't know whether Cas would be okay with him liking Sam. Hell, Dean didn't even know if Sam liked him back. He didn't want to move on this quickly. Jenna had warned him against it. Dean's hands shook as he poured the whisky into the flask, and it spilt over his hands and the counter. He swore under his breath and looked towards the basement door just to check that Sam wasn't there, watching him. Since Cas's death, he'd felt like he was being watched a lot. Sam wasn't there, of course; why would he be? Knowing he was now alone, Dean let himself sink into an armchair in the living room, and slide into his thoughts.

There was something about losing someone that overwhelmed you in a sea of memories. All the good and all the bad mixed into one big rush of emotions that made Dean's head hurt and his eyes water. Maybe it was his slowly diminishing sobriety, or just the thought of his perfect man drenched in his own blood, sprawled on the floor of their apartment, but Dean started to weep.

The first time they kissed often came back to haunt the broken man. It was a hot and rushed kiss against the wall of Dean's apartment just as Cas was leaving after a late morning coffee together. His mouth had tasted of spices and fruit, Dean's of stale whiskey, black coffee and fast food, but Cas didn't seem to mind. Cas didn't really mind about any of Dean's imperfections. With their eyes closed, they fingered each other's hair. His was unwashed, while Cas's was silky, thick and perfect. Again, Cas didn't care. Cas had left his hair and ran his hands down the man's muscular neck and shoulders and back. Dean pulled away from his tingling lips out of pure surprise and the want of oxygen, panting and looking into Cas's deep brown eyes. Cas had looked at the floor, embarrassed, but with a slight smile on his face. Then he fled, mortified that he'd ruined his relationship, without a word to Dean, leaving him breathless and confused in the hallway of his tiny apartment. The door was still open, letting sunlight and fresh air waft into the apartment. Dean stood frozen, alone, trying to figure out what happened. By the time he could move to poke his head outside his front door, Cas had disappeared. The sunlight blinded him and he blinked as he stepped outside. The paving stones were cold on his bare feet and a breeze rustled his pyjama bottoms. Cas was nowhere to be seen.

"Cas?" He called out. The street was silent apart from the giggles of children playing in a backyard somewhere, and the squeak of a teenage boy on his bicycle delivering Sunday papers to the houses on the other side of the road. The boy looked around. Dean raised a hand in greeting, but seeing no one else, he turned back and went inside again, his feet still cold and damp.

Dean took another gulp of whiskey. He hadn't had enough to make him drunk: he'd always been one to hold his liquor. Yet, h wanted to get drunk so he could forget. Everything had been so perfect. Why did it have to change? He could never feel so in love again. Ever. The flask was almost empty once more, and Dean had to resist filling it up a third time because he couldn't be a drunken wreck in front of Sam. He'd known the man for less than a day, but was already trying to impress him.

"Sorry," Dean whispered, letting one more hot tear fall from his green eyes. I'm sorry Cas. I'm so sorry. He sniffed, then with a groan, heaved himself out of the armchair and upstairs to his bed. His eyes were still swimming with tears so he opened the door; he fumbled for the light switch on the wall. He found it, and the room lit up so brightly compared to the darkness of the living room that it made more tears fall. Then he stripped off his jeans and t-shirt and climbed into his cold bed, wearing only boxers and his thick dirty socks. The pillows were hard, as he'd given the nice ones to Sam. Dean buried his head in the bed sheets and shook with silent tears that eventually became full blown sobbing.

Downstairs, Sam could hear him crying. He didn't know what to do, so he didn't do anything; falling asleep on his soft pillows with a guilty ache in his chest.


End file.
